Of Service
by NoSuchPerson
Summary: Benson finds both help and hindrance in an especially heinous therapy session, but in the end is just another wanderer who, wrapped up in her own life, accidentally finds a body and fails to hear two percussive beats in the distance.


**A/N: If you really wanted the Bensidy thing to work out...if you still want Liv to adopt that cute little kid...you should think about navigating away. If you're still clinging to the hope that Stabler or Cabot will come back and declare an undying love for your hero, continue on, because you're about as in touch with reality as I am. :-)**

* * *

It's not Dr. Lindstrom; it's a woman. Dark eyes. Short hair. Nice tan. The woman calls her by her last name, not once by "Olivia" and Benson thinks that's odd, but says nothing about it. Lindstrom's referral is good enough.

Similarly out of the ordinary, in all their sessions, this therapist has never said very much. Or been particularly likable. Still, Benson feels safe talking to her. The talking helps, and she does plenty of it, amid the few and far between questions and prods, when she needs them. The doctor's words are always calm, but curt, abrupt, and Benson makes her for an impatient woman, outside work. She rarely looks up from her legal pad.

"This will be our last session, and it will be an abbreviated one. My apologies." Benson is unprepared for this tidbit. She doesn't like feeling at a disadvantage.

She talks for awhile. About Brian, Tucker, Murphy. She's blunt and honest, and she guesses the Spartan atmosphere of the office, in both word and décor, brought that on. Nearly thirty minutes in, her companion finally interjects verbally.

"Are you religious at all?"

"I would say spiritual, not religious. I believe in a higher power, but I don't attend church."

"Do you believe in a greater plan?"

Though it's not funny, Benson laughs, reflexively, at the odd, unexpected question, and the therapist makes eye contact.

"Yes."

"And that you are a part of that plan?"

"Yes."

"That what you do every day is a part of it?"

"Yes."

"Then you believe you were always meant to exist."

"Y—"

"What does that imply, Benson?"

She knows, but can't say the words, and she senses frustration from across the room. A frustration she knows. A frustration she herself has felt, in being one elusive step away from solving a case…and in bed, working vainly toward orgasm when her mind is somewhere else…and in the recesses of the night when she wants to ponder the future but her sanity can't afford to think past the day…it's there, it's right there within reach, in the moment before a sneeze, and she knows it'll feel oh so good if only she can concentrate enough to find the trigger.

"My mother." She sees an encouraging nod. And then she understands. "It was always going to happen."

"And the things that have happened to you?"

"What if I had done something differently?"

"It's not a plan if you have a choice."

"I _have_ a choice," Benson insists, "I _chose_ this job."

"Yet the catalyst driving that choice was beyond your control. So _was_ it a choice or by design?"

She whispers, "What if there is no design?"

"Then eat your gun, Benson."

She's taken aback by this, but doesn't quite dare to object. "It was all, always going to happen."

"Lewis?"

Benson nods.

"Rather takes it out of your hands, doesn't it?"

In lieu of a response, she sneezes twice, and goose bumps of mild pleasure erupt on her arms and legs.

"God bless you."

She has the unmistakable, uneasy feeling a door has been opened, and regardless of what she wants for herself, Benson knows she must go through it. She leans forward. "Tell me." It's close to a plea.

The doctor mirrors her motion. "A life was destroyed so you could be created, so your life could be destroyed in aid of other lives destroyed…so someday, somewhere, someone who will never think of you or know you existed…will be happy. But not you. And that's okay. It's alright, Benson, because that's part of the plan too."

She leans back in her chair, thinking surely this is the world's _worst_ therapist, and wondering if she could have that printed on a coffee mug, and is she really _paying_ for this? The other woman mimics her again, eyes returning to her lap, her pen to the paper, but her voice goes on, relentless.

"You never had a chance, Benson. And you never will."

She feels herself start to anger, and her words come out more harshly than she intends. "Then why go on?"

"To serve the plan."

"That's a grim fucking thought!"

"It's your thought. Being you is a grim proposition. I should know; I'm the one stuck in here with you."

She knows she's making a face, and she thinks she should just leave, without preamble, but being honest—she's past that point. "You're saying I should quit?"

"Would you be happy if you quit?"

"No!"

"Accept it."

She should be furious, but instead she can only breathe. And it feels good; how had she never noticed? Petulance and futility in her voice, she sums up her whole life in the next question. "Why can't I ever be on the plus side of…of _the plan_?"

"Someone else is. Moreover, they don't appreciate it. Do you ever appreciate anything, Benson?"

The word falls out of her mouth, without thought. "Breathing."

The therapist nods again. "What about friends?"

"Yes."

"_Do_ you?"

She thinks of Amanda, but hears a buzzer before she can answer.

"That's our time."

* * *

In the morning, she rises unrested, and knows she has to go back, one more time. If she hurries, she can skate in before work. She only wants a few minutes. No, not wants. Needs. She skips her morning tea. She doesn't brush her teeth. She doesn't remember getting dressed. Nothing breaches her single-mindedness as she boards the subway train to an address she's annoyed at having trouble recalling.

And…

No one is there. The windows that aren't broken are dirty, the door is boarded and covered in the layers of years of graffiti. She shakes her head. Tries to make it make sense. It doesn't. No doctor, no office.

Straining, she finds that she cannot remember the woman's face. And by the way, why had she put up with being spoken to in such a manner? And when exactly had she ever told this woman about her mother? When had she even made the appointment, come to that? What was the doctor's _name_?

It's gone. She has no idea what she'd done between that last session and bed. The details fall away more and more rapidly as she reaches for them, save one: _That's okay. It's alright, Benson._

Then she sees the body, or part of it. One of hundreds more she will see over the years, in pursuit of an alleged plan to it all she had once told herself about, before she dies in the line of duty, and everything goes suddenly, wonderfully quiet.

* * *

**A/N: Don't ask, don't complain, unless you know something about how dreams work, and until you've read it twice. After that, fire away, and I don't need you to be nice. **

**Edit: Okay...to clarify...**

**1\. The pacing is what it is because, despite the dreamer's perception of time, dreams don't last very long. It varies, but this "episode" is the last distinct story in the last REM cycle before waking, and only takes a few minutes. As with your own dreams, it begins in the middle, with just enough knowledge to keep Benson from questioning her presence there. Dreams are concise and contain little if any real detail. Brevity was purposeful.**

**2\. When Benson's alarm goes off, she gets up, but she doesn't wake up. She's not fully aware until she starts questioning preceding events, and on the whole, since she would've been capable of doing only the most menial tasks while sleepwalking, she probably looks like hammered crap and is wearing house shoes. I'll leave that to you. Please don't imagine they're pink.**

**3\. No, it's not random that she should find a body there. We don't gain new information during sleep. We may reorganize it and learn from it, but nothing is there that wasn't put there by the dreamer. She has a specific, real address weighing enough on her mind to incorporate it into a dream, but she doesn't know what's there in real life, and if it relates to, for instance, an open case, then finding a corpse wouldn't be beyond the pale.**

**Cheers.**


End file.
